I do not know your name, but I know you died
I do not know from where you came, but I know you died

Your uniform, branch of service, it matters not to me
Whether Volunteer or Conscript, or how it came to be
That politicians’ failures, or some power-mad ambition
Brought you too soon to your death, in the name of any nation

You saw, you felt, you knew full well, as friend and foe were taken
By bloody death, that your life too, was forfeit and forsaken
Yet on you went and fought and died, in your close and private hell
For Mate or Pal or Regiment and memories never to tell

It was for each other, through shot and shell, the madness you endured
Side by side, through wound and pain, and comradeship assured
No family ties, or bloodline link, could match that bond of friend
Who shared the horror and kept on going, at last until the end

We cannot know, we were not there, it’s beyond our comprehension
To know the toll that battle brings, of resolute intention
To carry on, day by day, for all you loved and hoped for
To live in peace a happy life, away from bloody war

For far too many, no long life ahead, free of struggle and pain and the gun
And we must remember the price that was paid, by each and every one
Regardless of views, opinions aside, no matter how each of us sees it
They were there and I cannot forget, even though I did not live it

I do not know your name, but I know you died
I do not know from where you came, but I know you died.

Fiddler’s Green

Halfway down the trail to Hell, in a shady meadow green
Are the Souls of all dead troopers camped, near a good old-time canteen.
And this eternal resting place is known as Fiddlers’ Green.

Marching past, straight through to Hell the Infantry are seen.
Accompanied by the Engineers, Artillery and Marines,
For none but the shades of Cavalrymen dismount at Fiddlers’ Green.

Though some go curving down the trail to seek a warmer scene.
No trooper ever gets to Hell ere he’s emptied his canteen.
And so rides back to drink again with friends at Fiddlers’ Green.

And so when man and horse go down beneath a saber keen,
Or in a roaring charge of fierce melee you stop a bullet clean,
And the hostiles come to get your scalp, just empty your canteen,
And put your pistol to your head and go to Fiddlers’ Green.

John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.

- Lawrence Binyon, Ode of Remembrance